


a list of standard issue regrets

by onawingandaswear



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: (also makes some mistakes), Aliases, Canon Compliant, F/F, Hawkeye spends his last night before shipping out at a club, Hawkeye's Class A's, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Pre-Canon, Pre-Korea, Reunion, San Francisco's Underground Gay Scene, a one night stand that wasn't, lavender marriage, little angsty but everything turns out alright, makes a new friend, references to peg and her girlfriend, ships in the night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29616621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear
Summary: He leads them out into the alley behind the club, thankfully empty, and shoves Hawkeye up against the brick. “The mouth on you, my god,” he breathes, before ensuring Hawkeye has no air left in him to retort anything at all.Hawkeye can hear the rough bricks rubbing against his uniform, microscopic tears that will go unnoticed for months, all the while unraveling and pilling. He doesn’t want to stop. He wants to stay pinned until the wool is ripped and unfit for inspection. He wants to stand before MacArthur and Eisenhower, before Truman himself and say, ‘Look at me. Look at how much I care about your war.’—San Francisco, 1951. Hawkeye spends one last night as a civilian.
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 24
Kudos: 91





	a list of standard issue regrets

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for MASH and Hawkeye/B.J., but trust me more is coming! It's about all I've been writing since December and I'm excited to contribute. Playing fast and loose with some dates and locations for creative purposes. Mistakes, both anachronistic and grammatical are mine. (If you’re here from the Check, Please fandom, I’m sorry I still haven’t finished LA, yet, and I haven't abandoned it. Hunnihawk is just my comfort ship while I navigate a new job and a pending cross-country relocation.)

A friend of a friend of a friend in Boston told Hawkeye if he was ever in San Francisco, he needed to look up a place called The Black Cat. That same friend had recommendations for Dallas, Seattle, and Albuquerque, but Hawkeye’d been pretty confident at the time he’d never need to retain knowledge pertaining to friendly clubs beyond the boundaries of the North East. Of course, then he’d been drafted. His orders were basic at Fort Dix, but once the brass got ahold of his records, his specialties, he’d swiftly been kicked to the West Coast for additional training. Now he’s a Captain in the U.S. Army, spending one last night stateside, wondering just how much debauchery he’s willing to chase on such a morose evening.

The young man is tall, nearly a head above the boys surrounding him, and Hawkeye’d have been intrigued by the height alone, but when he turns — damn, he’s handsome, too. Clear, golden skin that screams afternoons on Californian beaches, brown hair so light it’s almost gold, straight teeth, kind blue eyes; if this were a movie —and if Hawkeye weren’t headed off to _war —_ he’d be swooning. He turns back to his drink, his own thoughts, and startles when someone taps softly on his shoulder. To his surprise, it’s California boy.

“Excuse the interruption,” he starts, his voice just as lovely as the rest of him. “If I’m not mistaken, and I very well could be, you were staring at me just a moment ago."

“Wouldn’t say _staring_ ,” Hawkeye shrugs, keeping his libido in check. “Admiring, maybe. You’re pretty hard to miss.”

“Could say the same about you, Soldier.”

The reply is lightning quick, and something primal kicks up in the back of Hawkeye’s mind like the firing of a starting pistol.

“Not a soldier.” 

“Coulda fooled me.”

Hawkeye thumbs the caduceus pinned to his collar of his uniform.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“Wish I was.”

“I’m in residency, couple of my attending are headed out, too.” Hawkeye notes that the man does not say what hospital he’s at. “What's your specialty?"

“Well, during the day I'm a bang up cardio-thoracic surgeon, but at night I fancy myself a well-regarded Proctologist — ” Hawkeye’s companion snorts into his drink, covering his face quickly to hide the faux pas as he keeps laughing.“— but that’s a hell of a lot of specialty training. I could be a neurosurgeon faster. Now, tell me, then, what’s an undeclared resident doing in a person like this talking to a place like me?”

“I'm stealing that one, the proctologist bit," the man chuckles brushing his eye with the heel of his hand. "Lord, I haven't laughed like that in weeks. I guess I'm looking for companionship. Or a distraction. Take your pick.”

“Companionship plays better in Poughkeepsie," he holds out his hand, and the man takes it immediately. "I’m Hawkeye.” 

The man’s blue eyes flash with understanding of what sounds like an alias. He opens his mouth a touch, his real name clearly on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitates, gaze darting away for a moment as if buying time. “. . . Honey.” He settles. like he isn’t _quite_ certain, but it’s too late to back out now.

“I would have called you _‘honey’_ anyway,” Hawkeye parries, earning another bright smile. “Darling. Handsome. Gorgeous. Stunning. A North Californian Adonis —”

Someone behind Hawkeye sniggers and Honey’s attention is pulled away as he shoots the man a glare. “Isn’t often I’m caught at a loss for words,” Honey refocuses, easing into the seat beside Hawkeye. “There’s just something about tall, sarcastic, and handsome types that really gets me.”

“You think I’m sarcastic?” Hawkeye lays it on thick, playing up the ruddiness in his voice. “I’ll show _you_ sarcastic.”

“I’m betting on it,” Honey’s tone goes husky as he holds Hawkeye’s sidelong gaze as he pulls from his beer. “What are your plans for the evening?”

“I ship out tomorrow, but I don’t have to report before noon.” Hawkeye offers, “Between you and me, I’d really like to disgrace this uniform before I set a foot overseas.”

“Looking to make yourself a domestic war criminal?” Honey counters, gesturing back to the rest of the bar’s patrons. “You’re among good company for that type of misadventure.”

“What about you? Are you good company?”

“The finest kind,” Honey insists, eyes dark with implication.

Hawkeye feels like the universe has just slugged him in the gut. Maybe it’s the liquor, maybe it’s the anxiety, maybe it’s the whole goddamn war, but he’s in love. Instant, blind, stupid, arrogant love. Then, he notices something.

“What about your wife."

He doesn’t mean for the question to be a condemnation — he’s found enough extramarital bedmates between long-suffering nurses and exhausted med-students — but there’s a shiny gold wedding band on his ring finger, not yet scuffed and tarnished from wear. Man’s probably a newlywed. Poor girl. He wonders if she knows.

“Oh. That?” Honey glances down at his ring, and his smile reaches his eyes enough for Hawkeye to infer he has genuine affection for the woman. “She’s a bit of a progressive herself, if you catch my drift.”

Ah. There it is. Hawkeye’s agitation eases, guilt rushing from shore only to be replaced by something too close to lust for comfort. He wasn’t exactly searching for anything specific this evening, but now he’s very close to something tangible — physical —and he _wants_.

“To your marriage, may it bring you much joy and minimal speculation.”

Honey’s lackadaisical smile is as loose as his posture, leaning forward to rest on one elbow, angling himself with clear intent. “My wife’s girlfriend cooks an amazing breakfast spread. Better than Howard Johnsons,” he proposes, as if Hawkeye need another reason to go home with the man. 

“Does she offer turn down service as well? A wake up call?”

There’s another question on the tip of Hawkeye’s tongue, but he doesn’t get a chance to ask, because Honey’s mouth is on his like the most fantastic kind of interjection.

“Should we get out of here?” Honey asks when he pulls back, resting a soft hand over Hawkeye’s. For a moment, they sit, touching, the ambient noise of a bustling club reminding him that that they’re not alone, but they could be. For a little while, Hawkeye could be alone with someone, before he loses the chance to be alone with even himself for a very long time. “Come home with me,” he insists this time. Not asking. “It’s a bit of a drive, but you’ll get to see the bridge, and I promise to have you back before first bell.”

“You had me at bridge,” Hawkeye swallows, trying to settle back down into his body. His sanity.

“It’s quite a marvel.”

The same man from before, the one who’d laughed at Hawkeye’s exaggerated affectations, slips behind Honey to snag a drink and whispers loudly, for Hawkeye’s benefit, “You know he’s talking about his cock, right?” Immediately, Honey’s cheeks to go pink, eyes furious as he jerks to look at the interloper, clearly a friend of some kind if the overfamiliarity is any indication.

“I did know that, thank you,” Hawkeye lifts his glass. “It’s very clear.”

Honey turns back to Hawkeye in shock. “That’s not what I meant — I was talking about the Golden Gate Bridge!”

“No, no, it’s a marvel,” Hawkeye agrees. “Much like — I assume, given your height — other pieces of your anatomy.”

Honey leans back into his chair and rubs his hands roughly over his face, as if he can wipe away the embarrassment. “I don’t know if I should kiss you or punch you.”

“I’m sure we can find a healthy compromise between to two.”

Honey grabs Hawkeye’s hand and tugs, urging him from his seat and toward the exit.

“What about my tab?”

“They’ll throw it on mine. Sal will make sure of it.”

“Good, because there’s only one crime I’m actually interested in committing tonight. Maybe two.”

Honey gets them both out into the alley behind the club, thankfully empty, and shoves Hawkeye up against the brick. “The mouth on you, my god,” he breathes, before ensuring Hawkeye has no air left in him to retort anything at all. Hawkeye can hear the rough bricks rubbing against the fabric of his uniform, microscopic tears that will go unnoticed for months, all the while unraveling and pilling. He doesn’t want to stop. He wants to stay pinned until the wool is ripped and unfit for inspection. He wants to stand before MacArthur, Eisenhower, before Truman himself and say, _‘Look at me. Look at how much I care about your war.’_

“As much as I’m enjoying this,” Honey breaks away again, lips as red and swollen as Hawkeye’s own must be. “I have a very nice room, with a very soft bed that I’d very much like to see you in.”

“I’d be amenable,” Hawkeye pants, “but only because you promised me breakfast.”

* * *

* * *

Hawkeye wakes to bright sun, chirping birds, and his nose buried in another man’s chest hair. His mind is blissfully empty for a few moments, still drunk on warm skin and companionship. Then he catches sight of his jacket draped haphazardly on the edge of the dresser and reality comes rushing back in to suffocate his contentment.

Oh. Right.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, going for coy, but his heart just isn’t in it.

He had fun. Safe, wholesome, lecherous fun, and he wants more. He wants breakfast. He wants lunch. He wants this man to tell him his real name and take him sightseeing. Hawkeye wants to take this man back to Maine and introduce him to his father, because he’s so unused to finding anyone with the same kind of sensibilities, the same dark humor. A doctor. A handsome homosexual doctor, with a wife for cover, living in a liberal city. He probably does this on the regular — hit up a club and bring home a ‘friend’. Hawkeye’s done it a hundred times himself and never felt an ounce of regret. Even so.

 _“Don’t go,”_ Honey whispers, still half asleep, curling his free arm tighter around Hawkeye’s torso. “You just got here.”

“I have to.” Hawkeye apologizes, closing his eyes in protest when he catches the time on the nightstand clock. They’ve overslept. _He’s_ overslept. “I’m sorry, I have to get up.”

Honey rolls with a groan, dislodging Hawkeye as he checks the time, and groans again, loudly, with vicious intent. “Stay here with me,” he insists, clutching at Hawkeye’s waist. “I’ll hide you.”

“Desertion _and_ Sodomy?” Hawkeye counters, rolling off the bed onto his toes, stretching his arms up and ignoring the distinct ache in his lower back from being contorted into an awkward position for too long. “Darling, what’s next? Communist sympathies?”

Honey shifts, sitting up and causing the sheets to ruck around his waist; Hawkeye almost can’t bear to look, the man’s somehow even more handsome in the daylight. “What now?” He asks, just shy of devastated as he must know what’s coming.

“You take me back to base, and I get on a plane,” Hawkeye rifles through his clothes before giving his underarm a quick sniff and realizing he’ll need to shower if he’s going to spend the next eighteen hours traveling.

“We should write each other,” Honey declares, whipping the sheets back to join Hawkeye at the dresser. “Would you want that?”

Somehow, despite spending the evening together committing all sorts of lovely indecencies, Hawkeye feels more exposed and defenseless now than when Honey was actually inside him. “I’d like that very much,” Hawkeye says, turning his cap in his hands absently. “But you have to be careful. Buddy of mine says they’ve got censors going through mail before we receive it.”

“I know how to be discreet. My whole life is discretion.”

While Honey is deadly serious, there’s something hilarious about having such a conversation while standing in the buff; Hawkeye can’t help but crack a smile. Before Honey can be insulted, Hawkeye pulls him down into another kiss; without the desperate heat of the night before, this feels more intimate. Almost more real.

“I wouldn’t have come home with you if I’d known I’d have felt like this in the morning.” Hawkeye chides, running his thumb gently along the shell of Honey’s ear, cherishing the way the man's eyes flutter shut at the contact.

“And I wouldn’t have invited you."

There it is again. Response without hesitation. That perfect compliment of a personality Hawkeye’s been searching for his entire damn life. Right here, right before he’s supposed to step onto a plane and head into a conflict he might not return from.

“I need a shower,” Hawkeye presses another quick kiss to Honey’s lips. Then one to his jaw, and another, and another. “Join me?”

It’s not even a question worth asking.

* * *

* * *

Honey gets more anxious the closer they get to the base; fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the steering wheel, knee bouncing when his foot isn’t on the clutch. When they arrive at the registration building Hawkeye’s supposed to report to, Hawkeye has to reach over and rest his hand on the man’s thigh to steady him; there’s a perverse irony in comforting someone who’s only _watching_ him go off to war, but Hawkeye knows better than anyone you can’t control fear.

“It’s going to be alright. _I’m_ going to be alright.”

“I’ll write you,” Honey insists. “I promise.”

“I have to go, Honey Bunny,” Hawkeye says gently, reaching for the door handle as Honey’s face goes pink. “I left my name and number on the nightstand. Don’t let your wife toss it.”

There’s that smile again, bright and full of genuine affection. Hawkeye turns to exit, but Honey grabs his hand, keeping Hawkeye from exiting the car just yet. “From one surgeon to another,” Honey lifts Hawkeye’s hand and presses his lips to his knuckles, quickly, just long enough that Hawkeye can’t brush the action way as meaningless. Not a last time, no, _this_ is a first. “Take care of yourself.” Honey breathes, almost like an apology, before releasing him.

“I will,” Hawkeye promises, moving to pull his duffel from the back seat. “If I don’t, you have my permission to come to Korea and punish me.”

As Honey’s blue Chrysler pulls away, Hawkeye takes a deep breath, adjusts his cap, and resolves to leave his newfound grief on the curb and be thankful for for the gift he’d stumbled into the night before.

* * *

* * *

Men. Boots. Yelling. He hated the Army before, now it’s all just that much more unbearable, and he hasn’t even left the base.

They file onto a big green bus, full of green bags and green people. Except for Hawkeye and a few others in their brown Class A’s. Hawkeye settles into his seat, hoping against hope they don’t fill the bus enough that he’ll be required to sacrifice the space beside him accommodating his long limbs and gently aching backside. As he moves, he hears a soft crinkling.

Confusion turns to dread when he realizes there’s a piece of paper in his pocket.

 _Still_ in his pocket.

“No, no, no, _shit_ ,” Hawkeye unfolds it and finds his own contact information. His real name, the address of the military facility he’s been told to forward correspondence to, and his own gentle request for Honey to write to him.

He kicks the seat in front of him, enraged, until a man with a shrill voice and ferret’s face spins around as tells him to knock it off, even makes an order of when he clocks Hawkeye’s Captain’s bars, and Hawkeye’s left to sag against the bus window, devastated in a manner he hasn’t fully appreciated since he received that first letter from the Selective Service.

“Hey. Buddy. What’s eating you?” A voice pipes up from behind him.

“Just met the girl of my dreams,” Hawkeye mutters, keeps his brow against the cool glass watching the barracks housing fly by, “and I didn’t even get her real name.”

* * *

* * *

* * *

“Rudyard Kipling.”

“Wha — _yes_.” Hawkeye turns on his heel to take a hard look at their new Captain, who shrugs with a playful familiarity not common this side of the 38th Parallel. “ _Hunnicutt_ , you said?”

Hawkeye gets the distinct impression that he knows this man, knocking down possibilities like support beams in an old barn, prepping for collapse; because there’s only one way Hawkeye Pierce knows the doctor standing before him, and it’s not exactly the most acceptable of relationships to acknowledge in the middle of an Army base.

“ _Bee-Jay Honey-Cut,_ ” the Surgeon repeats, putting such a phonetic emphasis on his name that for a moment, Hawkeye is hideously unsure if there was some sort of accident between Uijeongbu and Seoul, and he’s actually _dead_.

“Hunnicutt,” Hawkeye echoes, bending his knees slightly to get a cap-less angle on the man’s face. _“Honey?”_

“One and the same.” Honey preens, his smile just shy of indulgent.

“B.F. Pierce,” Hawkeye offers, stunned. “It’s Benjamin Franklin. Doctor. Everyone calls me Hawkeye, though. It’s practically my real name, even my Father calls me — ”

“Uh, sir? _Sirs_?”

Hawkeye turns to Radar, who he’d completely forgotten about, but in his own defense he’s also forgotten just about everything he’s even known in the last forty-five seconds.

" _What?”_

“Where’s the jeep?”

* * *

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
